Letters to No One
by Aunt Ginny Potter
Summary: No one said words had to be read. If they did, these wouldn't exist. They have no address: no city, not even a country. It's only ink on paper, and that's all it'll ever be, but it's not fair to toss them based on whether they have a point or not. They don't – it's all very pointless. But that's okay. It doesn't really matter either. These are letters; from everyone, to no one.
1. Empty Letter

**A\N: These will be a collection of random letters that will pop up whenever the mood strikes me. This particular chapter has strong TIVA vibes, be warned, but that doesn't necessarily mean the others will too (shock); although I can't say it's unlikely. Additionally, I have a Gibbs one that's cooking in my brain, which definitely means no TIVA, so…**

**Either way, enjoy it (maybe) and do review, please. :D And that's the first time I'm asking, so it's gotta count for something, right? Right.**

**DISCLAIMER: NCIS does not belong to me.**

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_"Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls; for, thus friends absent speak." - John Donne_

There are things in this world in which you put an unnecessary significance. You write letters to friends, and you write letters to lovers. None of them matter much, but they bring you, and them, a smile. Doesn't that matter? Shouldn't it? It's certainly to be treasured. There's precious little of it nowadays, and every one counts.

But that only works if there's someone to write and if there's someone to read.

Having no recipient makes a letter empty. If no one's going to read it, how do you know there are words in it? The tiny paper will be kept neatly folded like a new-looking prize, which you can't help but stare (greedy person, you are) curiously at, wondering what's in it, who it's to and from. But it's someone else's neat little prize, and you keep away. So does everyone else. That letter is meant to no one.

This is an empty letter.

Tell me, what's the point in writing this? It'll never be seen. It's just an endless pit of sorrow and loneliness that's almost embarrassing to be read.

Although, maybe that's exactly why you write it. Normally, you take it away and you put it back, because that's what words do to you. But not here. Here, you put the ink on the paper, because you're not worried that it's not perfect. It better not be perfect, actually. That would take away the whole purpose of doing it.

So there isn't a soul on this planet that you want to open this.

Except you're a bad liar. She's important to you. Important enough that you don't mind her reading the letter. Don't mind her finding out a few choice thoughts that run through your head sometimes. As a matter of fact, you wish she would.

But she won't. Because she's left. Her, her, and her. There's no distinguishable 'her' to bring up in your life that hasn't ditched you the moment they realized what a mess you really are. When it comes down to it, they're a single entity, split into timelines of your life. The common factor? They've all left.

You're alone. There's no one to read this. No one cares to either way. And you need to stop indulging fantasies that go in that direction, because if you know one thing, is that you'll be burning this sheet the moment it's finished. You don't take chances. Not anymore.

But she's special. She stands out. You don't know why, but you can pick her out from the middle of the others. You do that. But it doesn't matter.

You find her. Time and time again. She tells you to leave her alone, but you go after her anyway. You know she doesn't mean it – she's scared, and she can't let that secret out. She can never be scared. And every time the outcome is the same – you wonder why you bother. You pull her out – or at least try to.

She stays. She's stronger than you, always has been. You can't do it, and you're ashamed, because you're weak. You can't heal her, and that's your problem. You're a failure, and she understands, and that makes it worse. She can't understand, because that would mean that she's used to disappointment, that she's used to you letting her down. You can't do that. You can't let her down, because if you do, then there's no one else in her life. There's no one else that she can expect unwavering promises from, that she can rely on as much as she once did on you.

But that secretly pleases you, because you're selfish. You want her all to yourself, because she's just like that unopened letter. A prize you want to achieve, badly. A big prize, the biggest you've ever dreamed of. You'd never considered something so great, not before her.

But you lost that game, and the prize will surely be someone else's. She's gone, just like everyone else. She's broken. You didn't (couldn't – it's never enough to remind you how much of a loser you are) fix it. Once you were her medicine. Once you were what she needed to mend herself.

But you're not enough anymore. Were you ever? You don't know. She bottled things up, too much so for someone to end up sane. Her leaving had the stench of that bottle. It opened, and she paid the price.

And you care about that. You care that she told you that there was no telling if she'd be back. You care, because her absence is slowly taking your mind away.

You waited too long. No one that knew you and her (except there was never any you and her) from the beginning would think you'd be 'just friends' forever (except you were – minus the forever part). Maybe she grew tired. Maybe you grew tired. Maybe that's why it all fell apart.

You placed your heart in too vulnerable of a place. You shouldn't have done that. It's illogical – why would you willingly place a very large fund on your destruction? But you still did. And, unless you're really a misjudging observer when it comes to others, so did she.

You don't know that spot, where you put your most vital organ. That's the whole point. You put your life somewhere unknown, and you did it blind and deaf, following only her instructions. It's a hazard of humanity. Your feelings are there, and so is the basis for your happiness. There's a reason for the fact that you risked entrusting her with that important part of you. You don't need to know what that reason is, but you present it anyway. That's a hazard of humanity too.

And when she walked away, she took with her all you'd given, neatly packed in her baggage, wrapped up in her clothes. You're not bothered by that. You know she'll take good care of it. You trust her. And she does too.

But you're bothered that she had been planning on no goodbyes. You're bothered that she was leaving all your time behind without a second thought. But you're prone to jump to conclusions, so you test whether that's true or not.

It's not.

She kissed you back. For a moment, you were the most important person in her life. You treasure that, but it's an obsession that you can't fight. Except you don't want to, either. You might (it's a possibility that's coming to fruition scarily fast) end up alone because of that. And that might be ridiculous. But you don't care, because you have those seconds to hold onto. You'll probably die miserable, but that will still be there, waiting for you. Maybe that makes it okay.

There are things in this world in which you put an unnecessary significance. You laugh and you cry, and for what? For her smile and her tears. For her life and its reinvention. You (used to) see her lips tug, and now, even in the dreamed aspect of that action, you still grin in an involuntary reflex. It's physics. Newton got that right.

What is that, though, in the grand scheme of things? Earth is too wide for it to matter.

It does.

And you care.

And, then again, so do I.

_Tony_


	2. Lit Door

**DISCLAIMER: NCIS does not belong to me.**

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"_We may know that the work we continue to put off doing will be bad. Worse, however, is the work we never do. A work that's finished is at least finished. It may be poor, but it exists, like the miserable plant in the lone flowerpot of my neighbor who's crippled. That plant is her happiness, and sometimes it's even mine. What I write, bad as it is, may provide some hurt or sad soul a few moments of distraction from something worse. That's enough for me, or it isn't enough, but it serves some purpose, and so it is with all of life." - Fernando Pessoa_

It's really dark. Your eyes are open, but you can't see. You're bound, too. To what, you don't know, with what, you don't know either. Thoughts don't matter, memories are unimportant. Your senses are mute. But that still doesn't carry significance. It's better, anyway.

You don't know anything, because knowing things is tiring. Life is passed more easily if you limit yourself to existing. You work on automatic, and that does not require emotions. Smiles flow happily in all the right moments, because if they don't, _they_'ll assume they must meddle. They'll assume it's their business (they know they can fix it – after all, the problems is not in them, because those are the only unfixable ones).

You don't know what love is. You don't remember care. But that's okay. You don't want to, anyway. And if they want to show you, laugh it off. It's easier to deal like that, really. And then they won't become you. That's easier to deal with, too.

You can't find someone who catches your attention in the middle of them. That means the smiles will become your real smiles (and you real smiles are dim – your real smiles have no incentive to strengthen them), and then, as it's the natural flow of life, non-existent. _Then _they'll ask (thought you'll lie, of course), and forcibly insert themselves in your bubble. Don't let them. They won't find you, and all the dark and cold will blind them, drag their spirits into despair.

They annoy, but not that much.

They are strong, you know that, but not enough (not like you). Where you are, you don't hear anything. Every color and shape is meaningless without its associated sound (you still hear a little girl's voice, bringing tears to unsuspecting eyes). You forgot laughter, and even cries. You forgot the beauty of someone's voice. You lost the ability to draw anything from them. But you're not upset. You don't remember anyone who could have a voice either way.

You must remind yourself of things, at times, then. Bear in mind loss. You got rid of almost everything, but not that. It's stuck with you for too long to bail now. But it's not alone itself. It has all the pain and all the hurt you've bottled up inside with it. You'll do to memorize _them_, too.

But don't let them (those things you must remember) out when you speak. _They _won't just be looking at your smile, your talk is important too. They're leeches (you prefer to think so anyway – it's easier than caring, which you don't remember) and you mustn't let them reach your veins. They'll _know_, if you let them. Your blood is as cold as ice, and they can't let that slide.

Don't try to reach out. You'll hurt yourself. You know that, because only unintelligent people make the same mistake twice. And you've been unintelligent too many times before.

Don't touch them. They're too warm for you, and you'll burn. And if that happens, they'll know, and they'll ask again. Don't let that happen.

You should be aware that there are sharp blades everywhere. That's why you can't move, why you're bound ('for your own good'). It's too scary to fight them, because, remember, you're blind. And there is no one watching out for you. 'As it should be' – or so you've been taught.

But you're stubborn. Even though you've been told not to, you single someone out. You let him fight the dark for you, and the blades. You lend him your back, when you can't afford to have it yourself in the first place. You should be the only one who is allowed to have your back, because the rest of the world is generally unqualified.

He reminds you of that when he lets a blade reach you. You have to fight your own battles. You're alone, no matter the temporary beams of light. Those come and go, and you've come to understand that that is because the dark and the silence are overpowering. That's _why _there are only beams. Because life is made of oppression and blackness, and little lighthouses are just that. Little. And their lamps run out.

And yet, you keep trying. You _want_ to keep trying, because suddenly there's something else. There's a... reason to smile, to look for the light, now. Maybe your bubble is really a bubble. A bubble of nothing, but a bubble nontheless (it feels cozy). You promised you wouldn't think, but he makes you want to. And you start wondering if there's a way out. And there is, and he shows it to you.

You find a lot more light bulbs along the way (once you get going - it takes you a while to realize you've been freed). Some are feeble, some are not. They help you remember. You realize that you can walk free of the blades, if you keep up with those lights. But they're fast, and it's hard. And when it's hard, he's there to stand where they had stood, to make it easier. And you choose to ignore that, because he is a light so present, that he becomes almost part of the darkness himself. Part of the backround that you assume will never change (you should really know, by now, that your assumptions have a bad habit of never being accurate).

Either way, it's not those light-bulbs, small and scattered along the way, that you are following. Occasionally, they may veer you from your path, but you do not forget your original and ever-present goal. There is something out there for you, because you can feel it tugging, pulling. That's where you're headed. But you had promised not to do that anymore. You are blind, and you are following mute directions. That has always been your problem. And you had sworn it off. Sworn that you would only be working on automatically arranged movements, because of the last time that this kind of thing had gone wrong.

You're no longer stubborn. This is stupid, and you know that. But you're remembering. Your mind is claiming back what it lost. You lost that on purpose, though. So you're not sure that that's a good thing.

Sometimes that unerasable presence guiding you dims. That is when you are most aware of it. You fight it then, and you had never had to fight anything of the kind before. You'd never had anything like it in your bubble at all. But you need to fight it, because only when it is weak can you remember all the reasons you cannot be doing this. Only then do you remember all other failed attempts of the same, only then do you remember all your vulnerabilities. So you fight it to regain control of your steps.

But you lose. It is too great for you to win. It is actually overwhelming, the way it _surrounds _you. And, no, it cannot be inside the little piece of black you call your existence. It is far too big, far too bright, for that.

You worry. In your mindless wandering, you try to understand what is happening (once you force yourself to admit that there is _something _happening). Every step you take leads you in the same direction. And what if it doesn't stop? What if the pull never goes away and you can never break free, forced to walk towards an unattainable goal forever?

What if you don't mind any of that?

And it won't (ever go away). You know that, from the way it's growing in strength. It's much bigger, much brighter, than you ever imagined. It's a proper reward, and, for what, you don't know yet. What you _do _know is that you've done nothing to deserve it, and, for that, you suspect it.

It's dangerous. It's addicted you. You panic, and, for the first time in very long, you try to breathe. That startles you. You don't get to breathe. Your prayers don't get to be answered. You don't get to let go of the darkness and the void. But he's making you.

But he doesn't know. He's unaware of the consequences of what he's doing. He's pulling you out. You're walking fast and brisk now, with purpose. He's pulling you out, and it's working.

They don't matter anymore. You can smile, cry, speak all you want, and they do whatever they want about it. You don't care anymore. The other lights are being outshone by him. _You're close._

You can't be close. You need to stop. You've forgotten all the things that led you to the heart of that bubble. Forgotten the loss, the pain and the hurt. You have to take a step back, need some perspective. Just one step. One step and you'll be right back where you started. Bound. (Because it's a lot easier to destroy than to make progress). And then, because of your mistake of letting this light shine inside your darkness, you'll have to stare at it for the rest of your days. It'll blind you, so that never again will you follow any other beams out of there. And you'll stand still watching, forever, all the things you don't have, but which your despair longs for.

He'll be gone, but the damage will be done. You'll be thinking of him. Permanently.

And… You don't quit. You don't even falter. The memories past, equal mistakes, have faded form your mind. Knowledge is bearable again. You had never before left behind painful recollections, and you'd certainly never found someone you could care about – who would also care about you. _Does _care about you. You did now, and you're not sure you won't regret it.

You're holding one, now. To your home. To your silence. You don't remember when the walls of that bubble became your primary protection. But he's taken down every other one. So you'll have to use what you have.

Your feet have touched the edge. You can jump now. He'll catch you. He'll always catch you. That's something you can _really _trust. He's taught you that. He's taught you a lot of things.

You like this light allegory. He can really be described as one. Brash, abrasive and loud in a way that turns many heads. You can see him now. Shinning, bright and warm and inviting.

There's a door. You can jump through it. You have the key. You can open it.

The darkness has pull too. It scratches, and it promises pain if you don't comply with its wishes. _He _doesn't promise pain. He promises understanding.

But you can feel it grabbing your wrists. It's wrapping tendrils around your ankles, inviting you back (without the optional invitation). It's reminding you of your doubts. With each touch of this void, it's telling you how badly it'll end. How badly it has ended in the past.

You're a mess. You're broken. He's a reward, and you didn't manage the achievement that that demands.

He's helped you. Tried to duct-tape your cracks, put glue on your pieces. He's put a lot of work into making you better. He's made a lot of sacrifices, found a lot of all the things you'd forgotten and given them back. You've became his obsession. His reason to try. And he's tried. So very hard.

He's made up for every one of that light's blackouts, even (especially) when it wasn't his fault in the first place. He's stood by you during every one of your stumbles, protected you; ended, to his full and possible extent, every wrong in your rights. And not once has he seen you. Not once have you dropped your cloak and allowed him a non-shadowed version of your portrayal.

You've tried to. You've fought the imprints (the shadows in you) of all the evil ever allowed near you. You've fought your demons bravely.

But you've lost. You still can't see. You can only glimpse him, serene and patient (which he is almost never). You know he can wait forever. You know that he probably will have to, too.

There are new things in your life, now. Terrifying things you'll need help dealing with. But it cannot be his. You've overextended your stay in his life, abused his brightness' hospitality. He's given you too much light, and it's time he gave it to someone with less dark to shine through.

You have to heal. Alone (forever). Your extent of damage (that's all you are) is infinite. You can't try to fix it and expect results anytime soon (or ever).

You have to make sure he lets you go (fully). Somehow. He's too bright to be wasted on something so tasteless, so stale and horrible. And you take everything out of him (inch by inch), like a black hole drains the life out of a huge star. _You're_ that black hole. You know that now. And you're pulling him in, not the other way around.

He needs to leave before he loses any more light. You're panicking now (you're not aware of when things like 'panic' became so tangible – maybe the center of this bubble is different from its edge), and you don't know why. You're not supposed to care. You lost that right and that ability when all the dark was forced upon you.

Every other bright beam had the strength to walk away when it realized what it was, exactly, that you were hiding. You don't understand why the greatest one, the one you need to make _sure _stays away, can't.

Your every effort is put into making sure you go and he stays, and neither of you leave any ties, any tendrils that might, slowly and silently, keep darkening the bright and brightening the dark. You fail. You usually do.

He's still there. Holding the promise you need (and pretend you don't). You can't make up a fake smile anymore. Make a sound, even. You're being mocked. Being told that this is how you always knew it would all end.´

And, yes, you did. The path you took, you knew it to be a dead end. The silver lining were the steps you treaded on, nothing more.

There are things you can't take back. Be it the choice you made to walk away, or the choice someone else made to paint the black future of a killer into your diary's pages. Your actions mean something. So do everyone else's. That's the problem.

It's really dark, but there's a door (you can see it, bright against the black). You can open it.

You do not.

_Ziva_


	3. Mattering Subjects

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS.**

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"_A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend." - Emily Dickinson_

You don't write much.

Actually, you'd rather correct that. You don't write, period.

But you're not a man of rectifications, and you stick with what you say. Rule 51 hasn't kicked in as well as the others just yet.

You want to go back to the original point – it's not like you to digress (that's a good reason to avoid letters too). You don't write because it's pointless and it's dangerous. Yes, dangerous. No telling who'll read it. But this is meant to no one, so you figure it's fine. You fancy yourself invulnerable, so it's logical to think that this piece of paper won't survive past the second you ink your final full stop, because being (pretending to be) invulnerable and having this lying around at the same time is a paradox.

You don't know where it's coming from, but you do know that it's not going to turn out to be some kind of masterpiece. There's really only one thing that you ever did that was. And she's gone, because you failed her, like you always do (that's why you're trying harder this time around, with them).

Loneliness is a very straight-forward word, and, for you, very accurate. You're alone. Keep that in mind. For them, for things to go right this time, you try to hide that. Try to hide it behind silent speeches and dangerous glares, but you know (and they don't) that they're the people who have the ability to see right through you. Should they choose to. Which they don't. You have to be the strong one, so that, when they need it, they can be the weak ones. They're not gonna get that if you let them look at your issues.

You call them kids (your kids, your team, your family), they call you the closest thing they have to a father (funny thing, you've met all of those), and you're not sure why, but, _hey_, whatever helps them turn out as non-screwed-up as you're not. And, for you, they might not be what takes the pain away, but they make you forget about it. Momentarily. And that's better than nothing.

You keep them safe. You think so, anyway. You hope, really – there. A correction. When it comes to them, you can't afford to be picky about those, can you?

You're not of many words, but you like to think you say enough. You're also delusional. They see you as that unmovable rock they anchor on without a second glance. They don't spare a thought to whether you're solid or safe. You're the help, and that's all that matters to them. Again, you're not sure why.

That doesn't make it any less part of you, just like their issues are no less part of them. They can be machines trained from fabric to make others just as broken, or they can be hurt clowns who get dangerously dependent on anyone who comes close enough, too close. (You don't need other-worldly brains to see how a pair of those together would always end badly). Some of them can't be anything anymore, because they already were and are no more. Those you failed – more than you've failed anything else. But they aren't the _only_ ones.

You failed many. You failed to fix _her_, and that was your job. You failed stricken women who slammed your door on their way out. You even failed at appearances. You failed to dissuade a lot of troubled, and that was your job too. Only difference was that it was the paid one. You failed. It's plain simple, pretty straight-forward.

Even if that makes them temporarily think mistakes are acceptable and easily mended (which you can readily correct with a slap to the back of their heads, so that's not a particularly worrisome problem), you're there to clean up their messes. Breaking your rules, you've found, is manageable, (only) when it comes to your team, and you have no qualms in doing it left and right. So long as they're kept mostly out of the details.

And yet you're pleased with what you've achieved. They're not _good _yet, but they're getting there. You're teaching them all you can (and you're running out of things they still need to learn), and that's almost enough. But what you can't do, they already manage on their own.

This is how you know that you've done good. You can't say _a lot of good_, but some. And you've only done something as good as this when you brought your baby into this world (and, not to forget, you managed to mess that up). If, somehow, you can get them to be the best people, the best agents, that means you had a purpose to be here. It means you made enough difference in enough screwed up lives that your life isn't disposable. Helping people find closure doesn't count, because you're certainly not the only one who could do that. On the other hand, regarding what you give to your team, your would-be-children, you like to think that you are.

But the clock's ticking and you know you're getting old. You need to make sure they're ready to be on their own. You need to make sure the clown is ready to lead (you're not unsatisfied with the way that goal is progressing), and make sure the rest of them are strong enough that they don't need your occasional comfort. Maybe you're obsessing, because everyone goes through rough patches in their lives, and not everyone has someone like you to help them go through it, but you want something better for them. You don't want any roughness in their lives, even if that is hardly possible. But that's why you try so hard to make it happen.

You failed so many people, that you're just not allowed to fail _them_ (you need to keep saying that, because it's the main point). You promise yourself you won't. And, funnily enough, you've already broken that promise (like you've said, and you'll say again). Two women, one dead, one far too broken to even be where she's supposed to be. Failed them, didn't you? And, by extension, failed someone else. That clown, that clown that gets way too attached to people that have the tendency to leave, had the misfortune to get close enough to them. And he was hurt, and, like he tends to do, he buried it and laughed, and pretended it wasn't all very wrong.

Just like you, and you worry what that will mean for his future.

And he was beaten down enough that, the second time around, he can't hide it as well. Maybe with time, but you don't like the frown that, now, usually replaces the old smile. It was a set-back, one that you will have to work through. That is not unusual. It is good. It is routine, and routine is something the last year has not been.

But this was. One of your team gets a problem, you fix it, you calm them, they learn from it. That is routine. That is what you know how to do.

And _this_ is something you know how to do. This particular problem could take longer (it is not only possible as it is probable), because you hurt over it too. It stings _him_, but it stings you too. And it also doesn't matter. You're going to get through it because you have to. It's simple.

It's never simple. Everything is complicated. Life is both. And you're right in the middle of it, just like everyone else, by yourself. And you don't know what you're doing. But you know what they're doing, because you're the one making sure they do it. It's fitting, you suppose. You control their lives, you don't control yours. (Of course, there are thousands of occasions where your control slips, but that's why free will exists – and that's amusing, because you sound like an owner with his dogs; but they're not dogs, and they do a lot of things you can't even dream of, but you know. You always know. You just don't stop them. That would kill the point of the whole 'free will' thing. Although, really, that always sounded like a weird concept to you.)

And you had a choice. Which you made. You could have chosen to wallow in your own self-misery, you could have chosen to leave your life be, that day, when the sky fell and the ground rose. Everything was wrong, upside-down, and you made a choice. You put it right. You fought to be Atlas and hold the sky up, and you made sure gravity worked again and put the ground back in its place. And you helped someone. You helped several someones.

Maybe that means that your life wasn't supposed to end when your little angel's did. But you're not sure of that. You once said, to someone you failed, _'__that part of you died out there'_, and you know, now you know, that that doesn't only apply to the bad things of life. It applies to you too, and to your daughter.

And there are people out there, more than you'd guess, that care. And you care too. And care is something you wish was easier. _Simpler_.

But you've said it before. Everything is complicated. And care is a thing (and it's a thing you don't like talking about; hence the classification 'thing'). So care is complicated.

All the times you comfort them, all the times you hug and kiss cheeks, all the times you say 'good work' and distribute head-slaps, all the times you tell them they're good people – those are all complicated too. And they're important to you _and_ them, because affection doesn't come easily to you, but it comes when you need it.

When _they _need it.

Because your life is all about them, and you're perfectly fine with that: they're important, and they still have a lifetime of hurt ahead of them that you can prevent - but you don't. Your hurt has all passed. You're not sure what's left.

But that doesn't matter. There's something left in _them_.

And that's all you care about.

_Gibbs_


End file.
